The Chase
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Orista Oneshot only. “Orton, this is the night your legend dies.” Dave growled, his words an animalistic snarl against Randy’s ear. The hiss that vibrated back against Dave’s own ear, made him a liar. “No, not this night.”


_**My friend linked me to a youtube vid of Randy's Titantron and somehow this was born. I have no idea XD. ONESHOT. Enjoy.**_

Dave watched from the shadows under the El-train tracks that curved around the slum building, like an iron arm hugging cubbyholes full of people. Just a while ago the train had roared noisily above him, running its midnight errand, the sleek serpent it was, cut through the inky night and left in its wake a structure of shivering beams and brackets—and Dave, with his looking glasses—though he didn't need them anymore to know that the man he was after was holed up inside the slum. Where he was now, was a sign that the man he was chasing was getting desperate. He was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, and living well, but the law had been in hot pursuit as of late and so he'd took to more drastic measures as he was forced to lay low and for fucks sake—he didn't even think of trying to pull another bank job any time soon. Although Dave had his suspicions that Randy 'The Viper' Orton was getting antsy, and that he might soon do something brash, letting his arrogance run him instead of his sense. He wouldn't be the first big time crook to be brought down by his own hand, nor would he be the last. Dave found it to be a common trait among these types of men.

The last he'd mowed down was that Jericho fellow. The Press really had a heyday with that guy. His face was pasted all over pages, his name bold head lines, and his tricks and audacity made the Feds look about as competent as a barrel of monkeys all tangled together and dumbstruck. Jericho might as well have just posed waving his whacker at the Feds and really told them outright what he thought of them. He might have, if Dave hadn't of finally ran him down on a cold piece of dead cornfield just on the Illinois/Indiana state line. When Dave and his men were finished, that pretty little public enemy was no more than another dead asshole riddled full of bullets, his blood leaking from him like Swiss cheese, and staining the hard, snow patched ground.

But that had been another thing entirely, and Orton was smarter and more cunning than Jericho. Towards the end Jericho had gotten stupid with his tactics, and his need to be paid attention to almost outweighed any other mission he might have had. Orton, on the other hand, did what he did because he loved the control, he loved dicking around with the cops, the Feds, he lived for the terrified glint in a womans' eye when he grabbed her by the nape of her neck, away from the tellers' window, and kissed the barrel of a Tommy gun to her racing pulse.

Dave bit his lip, and watched the yellow light that seeped out from under the drawn shade in a certain window: the one he knew to be Ortons. Once in a while, a dark shadow would be outlined behind the shade. The silhouette would stop as though staring, as though staring _right at Dave_ as if he _knew_ the agent was watching him. Then, after tense moments, the outline would stir, shift, and seep away from the window. Dave waited. He kept waiting. For what now, he wasn't at all sure. He knew his man was up there, the reward on his head dead or alive a handsome one—a big promotion from the head honcho himself, J. Edgar Hoover, who when he glared bore an uncanny resemblance to those smashed nosed, black and white terriers from Beantown.

He waited until the tracks above him began a heightening vibration, a clamoring noise that rose steadily, and then the train flew by again, cutting wormily through the night. After it had passed, he got out of the car, and quietly closed the door behind him. He fixed his fedora on his head and brushed the front of his black and white pin-striped suit, before slowly making his way through the shadows towards the building.

He nudged the front door open and was greeted with a musky, dirty, liquor scent. Quietly, he slipped into the lobby, where over head a bare bulb flickered, the hum of electricity buzzing with each sputtering strobe. He made his way down the narrow hallway, avoiding to touch the yellowy walls with their stained and peeling paper, and did a double take at the elevator. It seemed unreliable, especially for a man of his size, but he'd faced more violence and brutality than a creaky elevator, so with a shrug of his wide shoulders, he ducked into the car and pressed the broken button that would lead him to the floor where Orton no doubt waited, perhaps darkly framed again behind that papery blind.

The doors opened, whining like old bones grating together, and he quickly stepped off. Up here the hallway was dark, and illumination had since failed. The only light was that of the pale faced moon, and the beams slid weakly through the dirty window at the halls end, and painted dustily over the wooden slats, lunar fingers tickling tarnished doorknobs, and Daves' shined shoes as he moved.

Outside the room where the shadowed figure lurked, Dave stopped. His fingers brushed the rounded knob, but didn't grip it. After months—nearly a year—of being assigned to this man and chasing him—it was all about to end. _That's what you said the last time, and the time before that, and you __**let**__ him slide through your fingers. You could have had him, and you let him go, to keep terrorizing the public, knocking off banks, leering for the flashbulbs of starving cameras…you __**let**__ him._

His dark eyes fell on his toes, as those nagging thoughts laced through his mind, not for the first time. He batted them away after only a few seconds, after all, guilt was not something Dave was prone to fall victim too, he'd seen too many men dead by his own hand to really worry over much of anything. He placed his hand on the knob, the door opened before he turned the knob.

His voice caught in his throat, any cry of bravado tangled in his chest, any image of blazing in with his piece ready to pop, died. His hands were nowhere near the gun that was strapped to his hip, concealed under his topcoat, or the one holstered at his shoulder. Anway, it wasn't his gun which was most likely to go off, as his eyes froze to the man who stood in the doorway, staring at him from eyes that seemed hot and metallic, and gazed up from under the shadow of his brow, twinkling like sinister stars. A rush of cold ice, like prickling fingers, fled up Daves' spine and then down, and settled warmly at the crotch of his pants, where the pin-stripes started to curve.

Without a word, Randy moved away from the door, and allowed Dave inside. The Fed closed the door softly behind him and fought to regain his composure, and regard Orton with wary eyes. The Viper just sauntered back to the window and stood, his fingers coiled around the sill. Dave ran his gaze over the wanted man. The cuffs of his dark slacks hit his shoes perfectly, and outlined his legs, hugged tighter to his thighs and his ass, where empty suspender loops hung. The tail of his undershirt was untucked in the back, and his rippling shoulders were bared, branching off into curvaceous, hard-muscled arms, that Dave found himself considering a little too closely. He pulled his eyes away from the outlaw, and surveyed the room. It was nothing unique, sparsely furnished with only the bare, dusty, necessities. At the foot of the bed—it was more like a cot really—lay the criss-cross leather straps of Ortons' shoulder holsters. Both weapons were laid out on the coverlet, as though maybe he'd been cleaning them at some earlier point in the evening. On the dresser was a violin case, the innards no doubt _not _a musical instrument but a disassembled Thompson sub-machine gun.

Daves' eyes moved from the case, ready to survey Orton again, but instead he took a step back in surprise and drew in a small gasp under his teeth. Orton was no longer poised in front of the window, but was right in front of him, wordlessly watching him as he tilted his head so slowly to one side, and those eyes—like switchblades—bore into him with something both eerie and deeply captivating. Dave reached into his overcoat, but the hand of The Viper snapped out quickly and gripped his wrist, hard as a fanged bite searing into his flesh. The smaller man had him quickly pinned against the wall. The trace of a smirk brushed against Ortons' lips, but the greatest of his emotions played out with intense silver flame in the depths of his eyes, always watching, always tracking each movement, each heated breath, shiver that rippled through Daves' body. Orton moved still closer, the toes of his shoes pressing down atop Daves', scuffing them, and the tip of his nose pressed to Daves', so each man could see the simmering beads of perspiration against skin, and take in the scent of lust that was rising from both of them like sheer, trembling, waves from a sun-baked blacktop. Orton darted his tongue out, snake like, and quickly touched Daves' lips. It excited him to feel the leviathan shudder.

Dave struggled for his wits, and after the touch of Randy's tongue flicking against his lips, his control seemed to surge back into him, and in a quick motion he turned the tables. It was now the conniving serpent who was pressed against the wall, his erection noticeable against his ebony slacks, and even more noticeable when Dave flattened himself against the smaller man, leaving little more than breathing room between them. What breathing they were doing, was hot and heavy, tepid against faces and necks.

Orton leered at the law man, as they continued this game—this battle for dominance—both behind closed doors and on a different level, in the public eye, on the front page of newspapers, in bank lobbies, and on stake-outs, with gunfire raining through the night—barrels exploding with white hot flame.

They ended up on the bed, still pawing and clawing harshly, quickly switching one another from top, to bottom, to top again as teeth started to nip like venomous needles, and hips started to buck, as control both heightened and slipped away. Finally, Orton stopped the game, and Dave held him to the thin mattress, the back of his head into the pillow. Arousals touched between fabrics, and the room was quiet but the throbbing of pulses and racing breaths. In the shadows, those reptilian, mirror-like eyes reflected into Daves' and seemed to numb him, like hypodermic fangs. He could feel the smaller man coiling beneath him, his muscles bunched, as though at any moment he was ready to pounce, constrict, and squeeze him to a suffocating death. Dave could barely swallow down the moan that was ready to surge from his throat. Randy just held his gaze, almost challenging.

"Orton, this is the night your legend dies." Dave growled, his words an animalistic snarl against Randy's ear. The hiss that vibrated back against Dave's own ear, made him a liar.

"No, not this night."

By the time dawn crept under the pulled shade, Orton was standing at it once more. This time, he was dressing, shrugging his arms into his shirt. Dave was at the foot of the bed, synching his belt, and when he was done with that, he knelt on the dirty floor boards and reached under the cot to retrieve his fedora. He sat it on his head and went to the window.

"So, how 'bout it Big Dave." Randy spoke, his voice low, gravely, still undoubtedly seductive. "Are you gonna run me in now?" Mockingly, Orton held his wrists in front of him, ready to be cuffed and hauled in, another victory for the Feds, another gold star on Dave's record, another man of a dying breed finally beaten at his own game. The eerie thing, Dave thought, was that Orton was smiling, as if he already _knew _what Dave's answer would be, as if Orton had wove the words himself. Dave gripped Randy's wrists, and lowered them to his sides.

"You and I both know I should—you and I both know exactly where you belong--"

"Where Dave? In some bleak place, shot full of holes, my lifes blood draining into the soil…_I'm too good for that, Dave._ Prison?" Orton laughed, darkly. "G-man, there are no bars strong enough to hold me."

"Then I suppose we keep playing this game?"

"Who said it was a game?"

"You keep taunting--

"And you keep chasing."

"I'll _always_ chase you." Dave breathed out, his eyes marking Ortons' chiseled features, and those eyes—those goddamned soul-ensnaring eyes! He let go of Randy's wrists, and walked towards the door. He turned once more to look again at the man who ranked atop the FBI's list of Most Wanted, and just as he had before, he shut the door and walked away, and as he did, Randy smiled, and raised the shade. The dawn poured into the room and painted Ortons' features in a glowing, bloody, red. He stood at the window and watched until he saw Dave leave the building. He tracked his path to the car nearly hidden under the El-tracks—it looked like a huge, spying, beetle. The Fed ducked into the car. Under the El-tracks, he sat in the shadows, feeling constricted—caught—in the muscled, unyielding, grasp of the wily serpent—not at all sure anymore who was the prey, and who was the predator. He glanced out of his windshield, and up to that window, where he saw the familiar form move against the pane. Dave shuddered.

The Viper kept his eyes trained a few moments longer on the bug-like car, until it drove around the block, and out of sight. He laughed.

"You can keep chasing me, but you'll never catch me."

Orton swung his trench over his shoulders, and grabbed his violin case. It was time to move on.


End file.
